Distance
by princessblair
Summary: I never knew painting her would be so hard, I thought for sure it would finally satiate my need for her.
1. Chapter 1

a/n: This has been left for dead, wilting away even before the OVA so I was just screaming my head off when I saw Jean draw. Soooooo.. I'm like super inspired right now... here ya go. I finally finished it annnd I even fixed my laptop. I'm amazing. Haha okay, I know I'm not but still... I'm sorry for any mistakes, as usual. I never proofread because I'm lazy and someone should just shoot me. Anyway, enjoy.

Oh btw, the song for this fic is Distance- Christina Perri ft. Jason Mraz. Listen to it and tell me it doesn't give you feels. I dare you.

* * *

"_And I will make sure to keep my distance_

_Say, 'I love you,' when you're not listening"_

The room seems insignificant and I made sure it wouldn't take my focus away from her. I lit exactly five candles so the illumination will hit where it matters the most;

**I**

The shape of her eyes reminds me of almonds. It shapes to a delicacy which is exotic in itself. The irises that it houses are cloudy and troubled; I can feel the hollow of her stare, the absence of tingles from her skin. Her inability to open up to strangers is reflected through the color of her eyes. It's the area between white and black and as deep as her longing. Despite that, she's here; I had to repeatedly remind myself that this is real.

Her eyelashes fight to stay open, fighting the urge to look away whenever I meet them. It curls naturally to emphasize the flutter, whenever she would lose the battle to close them. It's thick and black like the shiny hair that falls just a little lower than her shoulders. She insisted that they stay loose, some stray locks dancing with the air until they hit her lips. She swipes some color on them that glosses just a little bit and her hair would often trap itself on its sticky residue.

"Don't move." I murmur. Her hands twitch back to their positions. I smudge the area where she moved and I trail back my eyes on her.

Her lips are parted so that her soft sighs would be audible enough for me to hear. The flickers of the dim lights the candle emit do little to take away how breathtaking she is.

The heavy scratching of pencil against canvass reminds me not to let my gaze linger too much. The promise of an infinite painting of her where I'll never have to let my eyes falter is thick on my mind. My hands start to trace the feminine lines of a graceful jaw with my humble charcoal.

It will never do her elegance justice. Paintings will never capture how heart-stopping her face is.

**II**

My hand pats around to grab a firmer lead that I use to darken the lines I used to sketch her with. The flicks of my wispy lines try to emulate the poised curve of her neck which she rests just gingerly above the chaste lounge. The mixture of light and her pose elongates it to a perfect angle where I can imagine myself trying to suckle in kisses after kisses on the delicious promise of flesh. Her skin is smooth and ethereal- it looked like it would taste like strawberries dipped in bittersweet chocolates. Divine, sexy and sinful.

I hover my eyes at her exposed breasts and I had to take a hard intake of breath. I pray that she will not hear the loud pounding of my heart and mind- mind because my imagination is running endless with the many ways I can take her. Her chest is barely rising and falling, her shallow breaths are precise and they're wary of the fact that it might ruin her pose.

It won't, I know. Every single one of her movements is my validation that she is not a figment of my imagination and having her breathing under my stare is my proof.

One of hands drapes around the 'S' of her body, her palm face down at the side of her thighs. The other hand is propelling her upward, stretched like a wedge, her fingers curl underneath her stubborn chin.

My fingers grip my pencil tighter, its sides dig painfully on my calloused fingers but I suppress the urge to groan, focusing instead on darkening the sketch underneath my lead. The lines are thicker, so I grab the knife by the stool. I aggressively sharpen the blunt lead never letting my eyes leave her body for the fear of her image disintegrating in thin air.

'_She's real and right here.'_ I remind myself.

I dust the shavings and set myself back to work, tracing clearer lines above hashes of the lighter copies underneath.

"You can talk, you know." I tell her. The fight to keep my voice steady was hard, especially when my nervousness was leaking with every word. I wanted to hear her voice, though.

"Won't it ruin the painting?" Her lips barely move and her words are hardly an audible whisper. It makes me smile at her attempt.

"Nah, don't worry about it." I bite my lips in concentration as I trace her fingers on the rough texture of my canvas. She doesn't make a move to talk for a while so I respect her space and continue drawing.

"Jean?" She breaks the silence. I hum in reply, my gaze still locked on her dainty hands.

"My neck already hurts."

My teeth dig deeper on my lips as I force back the chuckle that threatens to spill. She's perfect, not just because she's beautiful. It's the fact that she doesn't know she is.

**III**

"Are you sure?" She asks one more time, her numb face struggles to furrow into a look that probably wanted to express concern. I wave her off with a forced smile, a gulp and a sigh of assurance- making sure that her comfort would always be my priority despite me wanting to keep her locked in my room, away from anyone else's eyes.

That would be very selfish of me.

"I'm sure. Take a long rest and come back tomorrow morning," I extend my hands to give her her neatly folded clothes which she takes with a grateful smile mixed with a little uncertainty. "I'm sure, okay?"

"Okay, Jean." A flash of her beautiful smile. Skip. My heart skips to a million different beats, erratic, irregular but completely common whenever she's around.

"Besides," I give her a nervous chuckle. "Wouldn't want my best model to be over-exerted."

x

She's punctual, as expected, I still wasn't ready since I spent most of my night meant for sleep, tossing, turning, thinking about a girl that I couldn't have. Well, I couldn't help it, my mind kept on rendering her smooth legs. Legs that, I could only imagine how they would feel wrapped around my waist as I carry her over to my—

"Who's this?" Her voice brings me to a flush, I could feel the heat on my cheeks because of the sudden trail of thought my mind had wandered into. Her eyes narrow slightly in suspicion but I avert them expertly, focusing instead on the painting she was pointing to. _Marco._ I gulp as a large lump forms in my throat; I try to keep any traces of anguish unapparent on my face.

I don't think I did a great job, seeing as she's turning away uninterestedly.

"What's more painful than death?" She recites the messy scrawl I managed to sign beneath Marco's torso. "Knowing that someone still loves you after it." She doesn't miss a beat.

"Marco," I announce after her, her profile slightly twisting to spare me a glance. What I couldn't understand was why she was walking away. "His name is Marco."

"Was he special?"

_He was more than special._

"Yes," I settle, the lump easing slowly. "He was."

She nods and heads towards the sun room, her slender fingers sweeping lightly across the canvasses I littered my walls with.

x

"Why don't we just draw the curtains and let the sun light the room up?"

The robe I provided her drops to the floor and my eyes greedily lick the pale expanse of the sight before me. I'm extremely lucky she's facing the other way, if not; she would've felt the weight of my stare and the red tint my cheeks would've been in.

Her legs.

They aren't thin like my other models, they look soft but every time she would make small steps the muscles tense to a firm hold and it dissuades their physical appearance. They have angry red marks just below her buttocks, probably from her own doing, so I ask.

"What are those?"

She turns slightly, a frown gracing her features, her spinal column fighting to keep her breasts away from my view, which is, in my opinion, unnecessary, seeing as I'll be drawing them a little later and they'll make an imprint on my walls when I hang the painting.

Her eyes follow the trail of mine, confused on what I was talking about.

"Oh, I had an itch," She explains. "I have really sensitive skin."

My mind rolls into an overdrive, whirling into the endless possibilities of what her statement holds. Skin… the supple flesh just underneath those dusky peaks… are they sensitive too? The dark area behind her ears, will she moan if I dart my tongue across it? How about the skin on the sharp of her shoulders, is it an erogenous zone that I can manipulate to my advantage?

She clears her throat and that instantly clears the haze from my eyes, my hands, which I didn't notice, had gone white from the grip I had on my paintbrushes. I loosen my grip.

"Oh, uhm…" I stutter, the air filled with awkward silence as she bends to take off her shoes. "The candle does wonders to your skin."

"The sun is good too," She replies, finally facing me after she drapes the robe on the coat hanger I had pushed against the corner. She sits on the lounge with her hands on her laps, feet crossed, eyes looking at me expectantly.

I couldn't tell her that I wanted to paint her the way I had envisioned her sleeping on my bed late at night. How I would imagine her being the first thing I see after a particularly bad nightmare.

"The sun is good, yes." I agree with her. "But the candles set a certain mood that I'm looking for."

Lying by omission. I can live with that. I'm an honest man but there are some things better left unsaid.

x

I mix my first layer of colors on my makeshift palette; light undertones bring the acrylic to life. The strong scent of oil fumes fills the room but I've grown used to it. I glance at my model who looked as impassive as ever, her posture already perfect.

"You ok?" I ask her, spraying in a fixative over my sketch just before I coat my first layer of paint. She takes her time before she replies; her gaze not meeting mine, oddly, the trajectory of her stare was perched on my…_ chin_?

"Hey," I whisper slowly and she flinches in surprise. She struggles to meet my eyes but replies, nonetheless.

"I'm fine."

I nod as I begin layering, light peach hues brushing on my canvas. Subconsciously, I bite my lips in concentration, eager to make this painting perfect for my personal benefit.

Thin, I make sure the paint is just for the base; I can highlight and add shadows later, focusing instead, to build a perfect base of texture and subtle burst of color against the off-white fabric.

I take a quick glance but had lingered far from what I planned as I noticed her eyes are glassy and glazed, still focused on my chin.

"Are you sure you're…?" I place my palette knife, brush and palette on the table beside me as I stand up to cross the room towards her. She quickly snaps out of any sort of stupor she had been on and her eyes widen in horror and denial, hand flailing wildly to stop me from coming near. _Why?_

"I'm fine!" Mikasa insists. "I'm just thinking about something."

I settle back on my seat upon her assurance and cautiously picked my brush up before I threw her a concerned glance. She shakes her head. "You can talk to me, if you're bored."

She bites her lips in thought and nods her head slowly. "It's okay. I don't want to bother you."

I chuckle at her because clearly, I would do anything just to have her talk to me nonstop. She doesn't need to know that, though. I pick my palette up again and start painting the lounge with crimsons. "You'll never be," I tell her honestly and I could just hope she couldn't hear the desperation on my voice, "A bother, I mean."

Lips tugging to a grateful smile, legs muscles relaxing in assertion, chin prodding proudly in place once more.

"I'm glad." She murmurs and I almost missed it.

Life could be really good to you sometimes but I wish sometimes would come more often.

**IV**

I ask her to come back three days after, when I'm sure that my thin layer of base color is dry enough for me to add a second one to. She agrees, quite fast, I noted, perhaps she's just as eager to see me as I am with her.

_That can't be._ I remind myself. Women like her deserve men that would give them the world, not men like me who can only sing of stars and broken heartbeats.

"Can I peek?" Her voice is small and innocent and I chuckle at the child-like manner her stare sends me.

"No," I smile. She pouts just a little, careful not to ruin her pose. I may have forgotten to tell her that she didn't need to be so uptight but seeing her try so hard for me had me holding back.

Her toes curl in rejection and another bubble of laughter spills from my lips, unable to stop myself. She wiggles her toes.

I calm myself, the last thing I needed was for her to storm out of my studio and my life forever. But, something in the way she looked at me makes me think that she wouldn't do that, no matter what.

"Hey Jean,"

"Hmm…?" I mumble nonchalantly. The second layer of my painting was coming together amazingly as I add another stipple of color on it.

"Why did you pick me?" Her eyes glistened with earnest, and if I squint enough, I could probably see her quivering. With or why, I don't know.

"Because I like the way you look," I mastered the art of avoiding answers that will catch me in tangle of confessions. They are messy and ugly; they scare me to death, having me thinking about what ifs.

If I told her I loved her, will she run? If I kiss her now, will she slap me? If I touch her tenderly will she flinch away?

Answers. I'm not good with them so I tend to shy away from asking questions.

I avoid her eyes as my knife manipulates the thick blob of oil I had brushed on, twirling it gently so that I could achieve the gradient I'm looking for. I take a glance every now and then, admiring the way she's laid out for my eyes to see. She's still, even if I had insisted that it would be fine if she moves.

Well, at least she's talking to me now. I suppose that's an improvement.

"That's the only reason…?" I could see her fight the urge to bite her lips, her words hanging- completely suspended in the air. I wasn't sure if it was a chance- to fight for her or to run away, I didn't know. I couldn't read her, I didn't know if there was anything implied behind her vague questions that seems to have been more frequent. I watch the slope of her soles twitch slightly, and as if on cue, my lips follow suit, jerking into a smile at the cute display.

"Of course," I tell her quickly, dismissing the matter altogether. Because I realized that if it wasn't her intention, I wouldn't risk it. After all, I only have her on borrowed time.

**V**

The sun is almost spilling at the edges of my haphazardly thrown curtains. The sudden intrusion of light threat to ruin my obscure lighting and a slight groan passes my lips. I have been working on the painting for five hours straight without any breaks and my back is beginning to complain.

I glance towards my model, which, I note, is almost nodding off, her head slowly slipping from her hands as her eyes droop in exhaustion. I suppose she deserves a break, I wouldn't have made it far without her anyway. I drop my paint brush which was doused in white paint, half of the painting almost looked so real and the other half is still waiting for highlights and shadows. I push my way towards her, kneeling so I can look at her closer, but far enough so that when she wakes, she wouldn't be startled.

Distance. This is what I'm best at.

"Hey," I nudge her with my index finger. She stirs and opens her eyes. Realizing who was waking her up, she bolts on her seat, upright, alert and god forbid, _sexy_. Her hair had been mused from where her hands have been, her eyes are half-lidded and fogged with sleep but for the life of me, all I wanted to do was ask her to go to bed with me.

Someone save me because this isn't healthy.

I'm almost done with my painting and she's bound to notice soon that I've been stretching her working hours to ungodly times. Though, she never complained, takes it in a stride, but I can't take advantage of that, no matter how much I wanted her here.

I do realize that this might be the last time I see her. Those smiles that I rarely got to see, the ever-so-slight tilt of her lips that are far and in between will only remain in my memories and nowhere else at all. They'll be gone…

And breathing suddenly became unimportant.

"I'm sorry!" She aggressively whispers. Her hands scrambling to probably fix her hair but I wave her off and attempt to stand up but she pulls on my wrists to drag my face close to hers.

Up close, her eyes have the slightest twinge of purple in them.

I thought she was going to kiss me; her breath was fanning my cheeks, my heart pounding as loud as the blood rushing in my head. I wanted to close the distance, to finally know what it's like to kiss the ever elusive Mikasa Ackerman but…

"Are you done?"

I shake my head and drew out a huff of breath, I stand up to sit back on my stool, my eyes still trained on hers which she meets equally.

"You can rest. You can take my room if you want." I offer. I was conflicted. A part of me wanted her to stay because this might probably the last time I'll have her; on the other hand- I had always wanted to catch her scent.

I haven't been close to her that much but whenever I could take a whiff; it's a cross of milk and roses with a hint of honey. It was almost like a trap, I think. It will draw you in with its sweet scent only to push you back out because it's out-of-your-league. Isn't that lovely?

She doesn't make a move, staying in her position as if she had never fallen asleep in the first place. I smile, picked up my tools and resumed working.

I look at her. I draw her. I paint her. This is the only way I'll have her.

* * *

I can't believe I wrote the word 'buttocks'. There will be a Mikasa POV. So please wait for that. I'll try and write it as soon as I can. Feed backs are appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings: Implied nudity, sexual themes, my poor attmept to write Mikasa's POV, Mikasa's a bit ooc

A/N: tbh, I don't know why I even bothered making this seeing as the reception to this was pretty low. I don't even know if I even portrayed Mikasa properly so this is my advance sorry to you, i think i did a pretty bad job. Anyway, I just wanted to finally finish this fic so I can move on to a new one. I still hope you'll enjoy.

* * *

_And I keep waiting_

_For you to take me_

_You keep waiting_

_To save what we have_

Jeans eyes. They're honey ochre- close enough, you would see flecks of grey along with greens that makes them all the more vibrant. They're extremely expressive and passionate, but they always seemed to have been directed at anything and everything except for…

…me.

I know very full well that were five important looks Jean gave me and I cherish them all;

**I**

The first time he'd asked me to model for him for a painting, I had been extremely excited. The exhilarating feeling rushed inside me as if he'd already confessed his undying love for me- that's what it felt. But, of course, like any self-respecting woman alive, I gave him a pause, a shift, false uncertainty; before I nodded slowly as I see his troubled eyes change to match my inner excitement.

If I knew then that it would've been too painful and hard to be this close to him- wanting him and not having him- I wouldn't have agreed.

x

I've always had a problem with socializing. It wasn't because I didn't know how to- it's just that I didn't particularly know where to just… place myself. And I'm sure my body language would often radiate it, I don't exactly hide it. Maybe I'm just born awkward- there are only a few people I could actually just get along with and Jean isn't one of them.

It's not that I don't want to, no. It's partly because I reserve myself from heartaches because beneath my tough exterior, I easily fall apart.

That didn't stop me for longing him so much, though; I do admit I still have hold backs. Guys like him, they don't fall for simple girls like me- they go for those women that are coquettish, the marrying type- the girls that love to cook, friendly- the types that go for romantic strolls on the beach…

I can't even cook dinner for my brother- _goddamn_ it.

But that's beside the point- the point is that, I'm here, scared- no- terrified out of my mind, because for the life of me…

Jean is looking at me like he thinks I'm beautiful.

He's biting his lips in concentration and I just had to remind myself that- no, I have to calm the _fuck_ down because another shift in my pose would ruin his goddamned painting.

I force my eyes to lessen my blinking- why? I don't know, I mean, I've never done this before- this posing thing. It's awful, the way you have to sit still; I'm sure there's a crick on my neck already because I'm holding it with the palm of one hand and I sure do regret posing like this. The way the air would breeze through, makes me impossibly irritated that my hair is sticking to my lip gloss and I have to wonder why I even chose to wear makeup.

It's not like he'll notice me even if I did… I've known him for years and he still doesn't give me any sort of indication that our feelings are mutual.

Not to mention the fact that I'm stark naked under his intense gaze, he should feel something, right?

Maybe I'm wrong, maybe I'm just a fool and I've just been longing too much for something that seems to go nowhere.

But when he looks at me like that it makes me think that maybe, just maybe, he can probably see me too. A strand of hair traps itself on my lip gloss again and I swiped it off before I can stop myself.

"Don't move." He murmurs lowly and I could feel my stomach turn in anticipation. Anticipation of what, I'm not yet sure. All I know is if he continues to look at me like that, I know I'm in deep trouble.

It's not every day that you get to have the man you've wanted for so long to finally just look at you- hopefully your body will be enough to make him want you, too.

**II**

I've just noticed that Jean has a slight crinkle in between his brows whenever he draws in concentration. Actually, I don't know what he's doing; I'm not really knowledgeable with art. Well, if the sound of pencil against the stretch of canvas is proof enough, I assume he's tracing my lines, my body, my face and everything I can offer him.

The thought sends shivers along my body and I have to stop myself from moving too much because that might ruin the painting. If I ever want to do this again for him, I had to behave. Act like he doesn't affect me. That's a bit hard though, seeing as every time he looks up, my breath hitches because his blonde hair would fall on his forehead and it makes him so devastatingly handsome…

And dangerous.

I have to remind myself- he's in love with somebody else already, Armin had already told me that. Even if I was just so curious, I stopped myself from prying too much, careful with my boundaries and also taking care of my heart. I didn't need to know who I had to be so that I can have him. I just hope that whoever they are, they will make him happy and should be goddamned aware that they knew they're lucky.

My muscles are starting to strain and I can almost feel my hands trying to give away but I work hard to stay still. I'm also quite proud of the fact that I'm even managing my breathing, not shallow and random like an hour ago- every time our eyes would meet, I would just melt, simply melt and I stop myself from hyperventilating because the way he looks at me is a cross between adoration and arousal.

At least, that's what I hope it is.

Either that or he's just too excited about art to actually pay attention to a live, breathing, _wanting_ human being.

My eyes linger down to his hands which are pale from the lack of sun, long and slender. I briefly let my thoughts run wild but his voice pulls me out and I'm grateful he did, because I didn't need to be this turned on while he's staring at me like I'm Mona Lisa.

"You can talk, you know." His voice is rich, low and husky. It's the voice of an incubus, I'm sure, because it's luring me to sin and I'm positive that I don't mind one bit.

But alas, it's only me who's feeling the weight of his stare. I'm the only one in this room wanting the other occupant.

"Won't it ruin the painting?" I ask anyway.

"Nah," He says, biting his lips again and I had to hold myself back from reaching out and bite them for him. "Don't worry about it."

I gather my thoughts before I reply because I knew that if I open my mouth, a moan would just escape. When I felt confident enough that I'm in control of myself again, I talk to him, "Jean?"

He hums; his Adam's apple bobbing and my eyes follow it with a sigh. I almost told him to just kiss me then and there, but thankfully, I had enough will not to do so.

"My neck hurts." I finish lamely. His chuckle is low and he drops his utensils and sets it beside him, his eyes meeting mine in another heart-stopping standoff.

I cursed my heart, it shouldn't stop yet. I needed it to love him more.

**III**

"Are you sure?" I'm not sure if my voice had sufficiently hidden the disappointment I tried to hide but watching Jean's body language, he didn't seem to notice nor particularly care. Of course, if I knew that he'd make me go home the moment I had complained about discomfort, then I would've kept quiet and just endured it, if it means that he'll keep me longer.

Though, I have to admit he looks like he's relieved and anxious to get rid of me.

His smile looks forced and he only waves me off with a simple hand gesture.

"I'm sure. Take a long rest and come back tomorrow morning," He hands me my clothes, which I take gratefully so I can cover my body hastily, suddenly aware that I'm butt naked and the grown man I actually like is standing there like he just wants to shove me out the door and not against the wall.

Maybe because I'm not pretty enough?

Could be.

I swallow the dreadful thought with a pained smile of my own before I reply with a simple, "Okay, Jean." He shuffles on his feet, hands scratching the back of his neck, eyes wandering to anywhere but me and he lets out a shaky laugh, probably so I can hurry up.

"Besides," He startles my musings, "Wouldn't want my best model to be over-exerted."

What do I say to that?

x

I tried to at least pace in front of his door before I steeled myself to knock on it. In my apprehension to see him, I had arrived earlier than what we've agreed on. When I noticed the curious looks his neighbors threw me, I pushed my nerves aside to knock and his face greeting me just leaves me breathless.

I was so wrapped up on how gorgeous he is that I missed the fact that he answered after one knock.

"Uhm, hi." I greet, my hands soothing the shivers that had bloomed on my skin as his smile widens. Breathe, breathe, breathe, steady, don't stop, you're doing well. I had to chant because I'd forget it the moment he'd enter my personal space.

There are dark circles under his eyes, probably from the lack of sleep and his hair is disheveled. I almost reached out to run my hands through it, to see if it is as soft as it looks like, to have blonds and browns tickling my palms—

"You're pretty early-"

"I'm on time," I insist, trailing my eyes anywhere but him. He notices this and steps away from the door to let me in.

"I'm not yet ready so-" He starts. My eyes land on some paintings across the hallway so I give him a glance.

"Can I look at those?" I point my fingers towards them. He follows my gaze, looking over his shoulders and he turns back to me.

"O-of course."

I didn't miss the stutter but I head towards them anyway while I can feel him following my every step. The back of my neck tingles, feeling heavy just a little bit so I glance behind me to see if he's staring—

He's not; his gaze is firm on the floor as he's waiting for me to say something. I try not to feel so disappointed. At least, not too much.

There's a painting in the middle of the long hallway, not the biggest one but for some reason it feel like it's the most emotional one. Its colors are so dreary but the subject of the painting is vibrant but dull, almost like it's a poem of heartbreak. I read the writing underneath the man's torso. Whoever this is must've died.

I take a look at the man beside me who had quickly averted his gaze to stare at the painting…

_Longingly._ The same look I would often give him when he's not looking, the same amount of love that I could never put into words.

"Who's this?" I ask him, careful not to lace my voice with unnecessary accusation.

I watch his face turn somber, his throat looking constricted, his eyes glassy and his hands turning white from clenching itself. I turn away, unable to bear the fact that the evidence of who he loves is just right there, just in front of me and knowing that I could never be _him._

"What's more painful than love?" I recite, my voice keeping a steady rhythm of practiced stoicism. He doesn't give a reply but I could still hear him sighing_ fucking l_ongingly towards the painting. "Knowing that someone still loves you after it."

Sharp pain shoots through my chest as it slowly starts to heave. I try and control my feelings, my eyes starting to prickle.

I remind myself that I'm not anything to him, I shouldn't even be feeling this _hurt._

"Marco," He finally whispers. I had almost turned back to him, to see what he looked like at his most vulnerable, but I couldn't do it to myself so I just resigned, turned back and fight the urge to beg him…

I'm afraid to look back and see him looking at that painting like it's the most precious thing in the world.

The way he looks at me is intent but there is no passion behind those honey eyes- at least not when he looks at me. The painting receives the love I've been longing for so much.

"His name is Marco."

The crack in his voice made me realize that he isn't over it.

"Was he special?" Although I knew the answer. I knew he was much, much more.

"Yes," He settles, probably to save face from me. "He was."

I nod, accepting my faith, and I make my way towards the sun room, letting my fingers run across his other finished paintings.

I've never felt so unimportant in my life.

x

"Why don't we just draw the curtains and let the sun light the room up?" I settle for small talk because it's safe and safe is what we both need. He doesn't reply for a while so I take it as my cue to drop the robe he handed me a while ago, my hands awkwardly trying to soothe the shivers that had broken into my skin. It felt terribly heavy, the air around us.

I didn't know where to place myself again, I would've known yesterday; I would've laid out, confident, alluring even, but now that my fears are suddenly reality, I really don't know any more. So I stand in the middle of the room, not quite sure of myself. Where to place my hands, where to look, when to breathe, what to do… where do I stand in his life?

Finally he spoke, "What are those?" which I really didn't expect. I shoot him a glance to find where he's looking at and I spot the familiar red blotches on the back of my thighs. Was he worried that it'll ruin his painting?

"Oh," Still trying to shield my body from his view for the fear that he might see the red flush my chest had blossomed into, I look at the rashes tersely. "I had an itch."

"I have really sensitive skin." I add so he wouldn't think that I would deliberately sabotage his precious painting. The air turns silent once again; the loud pounding of my blood rushing through my head might have deafened my ears.

Do I fight, because all strong women do that, don't they?

Or when they know a battle has been lost, they retreat and just accept the fact that they should rather save themselves for the next war?

I don't know, I don't think I'm strong , I may be physically so, but I knew when I love, I love with all my heart. And loving with all of it makes it vulnerable. Loving too much is my weakness.

"Oh uhm," His voice startles me and causes me to jump a little. "The candle does wonders to your skin." I felt heat pool on my cheeks as I let the words sink in.

"The sun is good, too" Embarrassment took over me as I divert the conversation. I Pick the robe up and draped it on a coat hanger I've found before I took my seat on the lounge, my eyes meeting his.

I hope he doesn't hear the way my breath is just erratic.

"The sun is good, yes." He picks up his utensils, this time he holds a brush softly between his fingers, like how I would often see people hold their cigarettes. "But the candles set a certain mood that I'm looking for."

He wasn't mine to keep.

x

Whenever I see butterflies I think of him; they're free and beautiful. It's not fair for me to think of him this much when he doesn't deserve it. That I should never be wasting my time on someone like him- like a butterfly I could never catch.

But how many times do I have to tell myself that so I'd believe it myself? That I could forget something that had been constant for the past few weeks and maybe, possibly half of the time I've known him.

It wasn't as if he asked me to love him.

My eyes fall to his lips, they're glossy and impossibly red from the biting and sucking he's abused it with.

I must have been so intently staring at him, even his oblivious self had noticed. "You okay?" He asks me while he sprays some kind of foul-smelling thing over his painting. I fight the urge to scrunch my nose in distaste.

I forgot to answer him as I continue ogling his _fuckin_g lips. While I'm naked. While I'm imagining those lips doing things to me.

_While I'm naked and he's in front of me._

No matter how daft he could be, he's bound to notice somehow.

"Hey," He whispers and I flinched in surprise because I got myself caught staring again. I try to meet his eyes but I'm sure it'll be much worse than staring at those lips.

"I'm fine," I insist anyway. The struggle to keep my eyes firmly planted on the spot between his brows gets increasingly hard as the knowledge that he has his lips perched in between his teeth again is driving me insane.

I take a glance anyway even if it meant a lifetime worth of humiliation on my part. Seeing those _oh-so-kissable _lips being bitten, my mind wanders to a different realm- a realm where I could be the one doing those things to those lips, where I can take a quick swipe on them to see if they taste as good as they look.

He releases them from his teeth's merciless grips and I notice that they start moving and started getting closer and….

I panic, he's noticed and he's advancing towards me, his face shining with concern. I attempt to subdue him with waving my hands around but all it seemed to do was etch his apprehension deeper on his face.

"I'm fine!" I say weakly and that seemed to stop him from moving forward where he's sure to hear the irregular heartbeats, smell the damn arousal and notice the redness that has clouded on my face. "I'm just thinking about something."

It's not quite a lie but I felt extremely guilty for fantasizing over him while he's still in the room. Normal people would have waited till they're assured of privacy but apparently; I'm more distracted than what I believe.

He sits back on his chair and tries to work again before he throws me a concerned look once again. I shake my head so he could get back to work and I could get back to staring—wait. No.

"You can talk to me," he says suddenly. "If you're bored."

I think about it for a minute and I nod, assuring him that if I need to, I would. Though, I'm quite content in basking in silence and just admiring him from afar, my personality is far too dull to even make a conversation of. Nevertheless, I answer him, "It's okay. I don't want to bother you."

He laughs lightly and turns back to his painting, ducking his face down the painting despite that he's significantly taller than its placement.

"You'll never be." Voice sounding sincere, it startles me. "A bother, I mean."

My heart starts thumping fast but the rest of my body relaxes at his assurance. My lips grace a smile and my brain starts to fuzz up a little because I felt like I would melt at those words. It was the closest thing I had as far as confessions go.

"I'm glad."

I didn't realize I said it out loud.

**IV**

He asks me to come back after three days with a brief explanation that the paint would've dried by then; a new layer should be added. Once again, I find myself trying to hold back any signs of disappointment, because really, I wanted to see him again. I'm thankful, anyway, that I'll be able to see him, even if it means there's three days in between.

I arrive, a little early, but he doesn't comment on it and has graciously allowed me to enter even before it was his working hours. I do as I always did and prepared myself for the day ahead.

x

"Can I peek?" I tease him, making sure my voice is airy with innocence that earns me a muffled chuckle from Jean.

"No," He answers. I tried not to pout but I still had work to do, that I had to remember that I'm a model first and a petulant child later.

He laughs harder at, probably, my display, so my pout turns into a frown, seeing that he isn't even painting anymore. He's instantly solemns and I fear that I might have offended him somehow.

I glance at him, our eyes meet and my I forgot to breathe again.

He looks at me like how all broken people do; like he wants to be saved but should never be reminded of it.

I break the silence, "Hey Jean?"

He hums in reply, his focus back on his painting as he starts dabbing with his brush.

"Why'd you pick me?"

"Because I like the way you look."

I wish he'd say 'I love you,' instead. But he didn't, though, that doesn't mean that his words don't make me feel anything. They're at least good for my ego.

I didn't miss the way he had suddenly tensed up, probably because it was an uncharted territory or probably because he doesn't think of me that way. That I'm just a subject for a painting, a muse that will only remain as a muse- but not enough to ignite passion for.

"That's the only reason?" The desperation on my voice starts to leak, heavy with implied answers that I want to hear. To be honest, I don't know what I'm expecting. Clearly, pursuing a relationship with him doesn't seem to be easy.

"Of course," He replies quickly.

I find that it's best to commit to my memory that I only had him on borrowed time, and that it's surely not wise too waste them on questions that lead to heartbreaks.

**V**

The sun was beginning to rise but I couldn't care less. My eyes are dropping as fast as my energy and my hands are starting to shake under me. If there had been a huge gust of wind, I'm sure I'll topple over because I'm just too tired at this point.

I'm not moving around though, even if I'm complaining.

Jean hadn't asked for a break and I was too afraid that if I bring it up, he'll make me go home early again.

My eyes drop and I reassure myself that it'll only be for a minute and I won't let a second pass.

The next thing I know, Jean is prodding me with his index finger and he's close, kneeling beside me that it startles me. I sit up straight, because if he's this close to me, I'm sure he'll know what I'm thinking of.

I mutter a pathetic apology for dosing off but he doesn't reply, instead, he's looking at me intently. His eyes are tired-looking but they're happy. The little light that had forced its way behind the curtains had created an ethereal glow behind him that almost makes him look like he's artificial.

I don't break eye contact and even if I do, I doubt he'll notice because he looks like he's thinking about something.

I fluster under the stare because his stare makes me hope that he will grow to love me the way I love him.

"I'm sorry!" I attempt again to gain his attention. I attempt to fix my hair, it probably resembles a bird's nest right now but he waves me off and smiles at me softly. He moves to stand and, upon realizing this, I quickly reached for his wrists to stop him.

Of course, I didn't think before I acted, and I didn't really know what to say.

He was close, incredibly so. I could almost taste him on my tongue. I move my face closer to his to gauge his reaction but his eyes widen marginally in what I could label as fear. Or maybe horror, give or take.

I've always wondered what it would be like to kiss Jean Kirschtein. If he would kiss like he means it- with enough passion as he is with art. Or would he be gentle, coaxing his partner into a lure of arousal. Maybe he'll be a gentleman and just lay chaste, sweet kisses on the tips of my lips.

I'll never know.

"Are you done?"

He shakes his head and the haze residing in his eyes had cleared. He moves to sit back on his stool, his eyes never leaving mine.

"You can rest. You can take my room if you want."

And leave him here? Though, the offer was tempting. I have half a mind to take it up, to see if his room smells just like him. And maybe I can lie down and imagine what it's like to be in his bed, where I hope someday, I'll lay underneath him.

I don't move. I don't think I want to know.

I fix my pose, going back to what I have been accustomed to for the past few days so he can get to work.

I relax. I smile. I pose. This is the only time he looks at me.


End file.
